


fire and flux

by theobscurepotato



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, because geralt of course, geralt uses logic badly, now with some Geralt whump as a bonus treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25618981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theobscurepotato/pseuds/theobscurepotato
Summary: He had imagined their reunion a thousand different ways since they parted on the mountain. In every scenario, though, Geralt had imagined Jaskier well and whole and safe. Like he must be, when not putting himself in danger with Geralt. Not like this.Geralt and Jaskier reunite outside of Vizima, while war and sickness ravage the Continent.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 136
Kudos: 622
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Folks, we’re quarantine-cooking with canon over here. Meaning we're playing fast and loose with geography and timelines. Mainly TV, but a healthy pinch of the book* and game! 
> 
> *Spoilers for Sword of Destiny

_“For the true story would not have moved anyone. Who would have wanted to hear that the Witcher and Little Eye parted and never, ever, saw each other again? About how four years later Little Eye died of the smallpox during an epidemic raging in Vizima? About how he, Dandelion, had carried her out in his arms between corpses being cremated on funeral pyres and buried her far from the city, in the forest, alone and peaceful.”_  
\--Andrzej Sapkowski, A Little Sacrifice 

_“Nothing in the world is worth turning one's back on what one loves.”_  
― Albert Camus, The Plague

* * *

  


When Geralt first heard word of the plague ravaging Vizima, it didn’t immediately trouble him. Sickness and war simply meant more work for less pay in the cruel, imbalanced economics of the witcher’s world. The Temarian countryside would be ravished and the wealth would concentrate even more in the cities. So when the small town on the outskirts of Vizima was unable to pay the bounty for the Griffin, he tied the trophy to Roach without complaint and turned toward the capital. 

The alderman had tried hard to dissuade him, promising to gather the coin in a few weeks’ time, warning that the entrance to the city was barred as its citizens succumbed to a terrible sickness. 

“First fire, then flux, Master Witcher. They burn with fever for days. It settles in the lungs, though, after. Best to leave with your life even if it means a lighter purse.”

But Geralt needed the coin. There was a list of supplies he needed before taking the mountain paths to winter in Kaer Morhen. He was loath to delay: the mountain paths were tricky enough before the first snows. Mistime it by just one day and he’d be making alternate winter plans. 

Maybe venturing into the capital wouldn’t be worth it, he thought, as he guided Roach along the empty roads. While Geralt feared no mortal sickness, tensions would be high in the city. And when tensions were high, it was all the easier for folk to turn against an outsider. 

Night was fast approaching and Geralt had yet to encounter a single person on the road. There was a faint smell of ash on the air that grew stronger as he approached Vizima. It made him pause. Better, perhaps, to set up camp on the outer bank and wait for daylight. Gauge the risk. 

“What do you say, Roach?” 

She dipped her head in agreement, so Geralt patted her neck, dismounted, and led her off the road. The trees were still a blaze of red and gold. There would be enough cover to hide them from anyone or anything taking the roads at night. 

They hadn’t moved too deep into the woods when the trees parted into a small clearing. Geralt moved his hand to his sword. At the edge of the meadow was a rock cairn. A slender man huddled next to the fresh grave. In the evening shadows he nearly blended in with the earth. 

Geralt approached quietly. The man sat back on his ankles and then Geralt was able to see next to him the unmistakable shape of a lute and a familiar purple cloth satchel. 

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier startled at the sound of his voice and turned wide-eyed in his direction. As Geralt came closer, he could see that the bard’s clothes were torn and muddy. Even more filthy than the rest of him, his hands were smeared in mud, fingernails cracked and broken. 

“Jaskier. Your hands,” Geralt said stupidly. 

He had imagined their reunion a thousand different ways since they parted on the mountain. Sometimes, Jaskier withheld forgiveness. Sometimes, Jaskier absolved him with words or a touch. In every scenario, though, Geralt had imagined Jaskier well and whole and safe. Like he must be, when not putting himself in danger with Geralt. Not like this. 

_And yet, here we are._

Jaskier stared at him. “Ger-Geralt?” 

Geralt kneeled in the dirt next to him. “Your hands,” he said again, taking them in his. At his touch, Jaskier’s eyes welled with tears. 

“They were going to burn her, Geralt, like --like trash in the street!” 

“Who?” And Geralt steeled some tiny hateful part of himself to hear about a new lady love. Someone who had comforted him, perhaps, when Geralt had cut him from his life. 

“Essi’s dead.” Jaskier wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “My poor sweet Little Eye.” 

"I am sorry,” Geralt said quietly, pulling him into his arms. He had only met Essi Daven once, many years ago, when the three of them has spent a few weeks at the seaside in Bremervoord. She was Jaskier’s younger sister in every way but blood; the two shared the same love of song, poetry, and competition. Geralt remembered his brief time with them filled with laughter and verbal sparring. 

The witcher could smell the smoke from the funeral pyres and the sweet, cloying smell of death lingering on Jaskier’s clothes and hair. The bard wept noiselessly, his injured hands curling and uncurling on Geralt’s sleeve. In the face of death, their fight on the mountain seemed small and mean and insignificant. He hoped in this moment that he was a comfort to Jaskier and not another wound. 

“I nursed her for weeks. The Catriona plague, they are calling it. She was at Saint Lebioda's. They were –they were piling bodies outside the doors for the carts to come. I had to sneak out –carry her out. They have archers at the gates to stop the spread. I buried her with her lute, fucked my hands all up with the rocks, but –oh, Geralt –the thought of some ghoul digging her out, I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear it.” 

With that, Jaskier pulled away and covered his face with his hands. The two sat in silence as night fell. Geralt shut his eyes against the image of Jaskier stumbling down the burning streets, the body in his arms long gone cold. Alone and frightened in his grief. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier finally said, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“Hmm?”

“Essi died…badly. Will she –turn? What makes a wraith a wraith, exactly?”

Geralt cleared his throat, “You buried her. That is no small thing.” 

“I planned to sit vigil tonight,” Jaskier paused. “Will you stay?” 

The tone in his voice was something familiar to Geralt and his stomach clenched. Even after this, Jaskier was steeling himself for Geralt to leave. “I plan to stay.” 

Jaskier visibly slumped as the tension left his shoulders. “If you wish it,” Geralt added gruffly. 

“Let’s send her off proper, then,” Jaskier said. His bloodied hand caressed his lute case regretfully. “As best we can. The world is a little less bright, Essi love. Now that you’ve left.” 

And Jaskier began to sing. They were not songs that Geralt recognized. There was a softer quality to them, little ornate flourishes so different from Jaskier’s usual stylization, and he realized, of course: these songs belong to Essi. 

The bard sang until his voice was hoarse and the stars were bright in the sky. 

“Farewell my sweet Little Eye,” he whispered.

Geralt took Jaskier’s hand in his. Off in the darkness, Vizima glowed: a city on fire.

* * *

In the morning light, Jaskier’s exhaustion was plainly visible in the dark circles under his eyes. He swayed a little as he climbed to his feet and waved away Geralt’s offer of food and drink. Geralt saddled Roach quietly, watching the bard from the corner of his eye. 

Jaskier paused at the cairn. He closed his eyes for a long moment before turning away. 

“Let’s put some distance between us and this place,” Jaskier said finally, his voice rough. 

“Heading in a particular direction?”

“I hadn’t really thought,” Jaskier managed a shaky laugh. “I only thought supposing I survived the night that I would head north. Maybe Oxenfurt. Or hop between towns in Kerack if I can’t stomach city walls.”

“The world is going mad,” Geralt said quietly. “War is coming from the south. If Vizima wasn’t burning from plague, it would be burning by war. Only disease and the approach of winter has halted Nilfgaard’s war machine.”

“Ever the optimist,” Jaskier replied with a weak smile. “Nilfgaard still has to burn through Cintra and Sodden before even considering the path to Vizima. That’s a tall order.” 

“Go on to Oxenfurt, Jaskier. I’ll travel with you as far as the Pontar.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed. 

“You still think they will cut through Cintra,” he said flatly. It was not a question. It seemed nearly a full minute before he added softly, “And –the child surprise?” 

Geralt could not disguise his grimace. How to tell Jaskier that at the spring thaw, he would ride straight for Cintra? The bard needed to be safely stowed at Oxenfurt. Let Jaskier at least be free from the dangers of an unwanted destiny. “Do not concern yourself with it.” 

Jaskier looked like he was on the verge of responding when something sharp and angry flashed in his eyes. Without a word, he turned on his heel and marched stiffly down the road. 

Instead of riding Roach, Geralt followed on foot. Jaskier moved quickly enough to remain several paces ahead. The Jaskier that Geralt knew was quick to hide his hurts under a slew of words, or a song, or a smile. This unnatural quiet pressed on Geralt like a physical weight. 

The sun was high in the sky when Jaskier finally collapsed. He had turned back toward Geralt and opened his mouth as if to speak, before swaying and pitching forward into the dirt. Geralt swore and reached him in three quick steps, grabbing him by his shoulder and turning him onto his back. Jaskier shivered but did not open his eyes. His skin burned to the touch. 

“Fuck,” Geralt snarled. He shook him then, more roughly than intended, feeling something heavy settle in his own chest. “Damn it all, Jaskier.” 

First fire, the alderman had said.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier hadn’t thought he was scared of heights. Climbing out of second-story windows to escape a vengeful husband or wife was one thing, but staring at this shortcut to _certain death_ twisted something in his stomach. He turned back to Geralt and Yennefer and managed a shaky smile. 

“Ladies first,” Jaskier quipped, and Yennefer gave him a little shove, enough that he bit off a laugh of terror to turn and press himself against the cliffside. The heights were dizzying. Jaskier closed his eyes as the footpath rocked and swayed. He hummed nervously to himself as he inched his way along the ledge, stealing a quick glance below. The depths were hidden by mist --no, not mist --steam. Somehow instead of chilly vapor, great clouds of steam were bellowing up from the ravine. 

“What is this?” he wondered aloud and turned back toward the sorceress and witcher. But there was nothing but the strange thick fog behind him. Should he wait? Between Borch and his mystery, and Yennefer and her plans, and Yarpin and his greed, there was a very real chance that Geralt was in danger. Which meant there was a very real chance that his being on this ledge would only give Geralt another liability to worry about. 

“Geralt!” he yelled. 

Silence. Jaskier sighed. This whole adventure had been fucked from the very beginning. It was fucked right from the moment Yennefer had marched through the tavern doors and set Geralt spinning off again. 

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and began toeing his way along the path. Squinting, he could make out the form of someone ahead of him. A very familiar broad-shouldered someone --but wasn’t Geralt on the bridge behind him? And where was the rest of the party? 

Geralt kept moving faster, disappearing and reappearing, his figure growing smaller as it receded in the distance. Jaskier tried to quicken his pace but it suddenly felt like he was caught in mud. He had to will himself through every step, sweating with exertion. His doublet was soon soaked through with the heat and the damp and he tugged at his collar before letting his hands slip wetly along the rope. His hands were sore. Had he fallen and scraped them? 

“Geralt!” he tried again, and the figure wavered in the distance, seeming to expand and contract, and the sight of it made him so dizzy he dropped to his knees. 

“Geralt, help me,” he said softly, as the heat pressed down on him like a solid weight. He had to keep moving, he knew, even as he lay there panting in the heat, his eyes closed against the sting of sweat and salt, so Jaskier began to crawl. His arms trembled as he dragged himself over the planks. Gasping, he lay his face against the dark wood. He felt very nauseous and very dizzy. 

Had Geralt even realized that Jaskier was so far behind? Would he come back for him or just leave him here alone? 

A dark shadow suddenly loomed over him. Jaskier weakly raised his head and there was the dragon impossibly perched on the ledge in front of him. Golden scales shimmered and sparked in his vision. At least the pain dulled his fear. 

“Gold dragons do not exist,” Jaskier whispered, trying to blink the sight away. “Gold dragons do not exist.” 

It opened its mouth and the heat was then so unbearable that Jaskier screamed aloud. He tried to curl into himself, to shield himself, but his limbs would not obey. The torrent of heat felt neverending. 

"Please, it burns," Jaskier begged. “I’m burning.” 

The dragon opened its mouth again and there was another wave of that terrible heat. Jaskier moaned as it washed over him, his whole body sweating and shaking.

“Please no, please no, oh, please,” he whimpered, and tears were running hotly down his face now. His voice broke. “Geralt, please.”

The dragon's golden eyes stared into his with a strange expression. The look in its eyes was one of fear. 

"Jaskier," it said. “Jaskier wake up.”

* * *

“Dammit, Jaskier. Stay with me.” 

There was a cool cloth pressed against his forehead and he tried, vainly, to cling to that voice. Mother Goddess...he felt like his very blood was boiling. Behind his eyelids even the darkness was tinged with red. 

He whimpered when the cloth was withdrawn and heard someone sigh. 

Then there was the wonderful cool cloth again, wiping his chin, and he mouthed a little at the corner. His throat felt impossibly dry.

"Can you drink? Jaskier, please."

“G’rlt,” he slurred. He reached out blindly and a hand gripped his own. 

And there were arms around him now, propping him up. A tin cup pressed against his cracked lips. He tried to will himself to swallow but his tongue felt thick and stupid in his mouth and his throat wouldn’t obey. Jaskier felt the water dribble uselessly down his chin as the world once again lurched and heaved.

"Jaskier, just a mouthful. Then you can sleep. You need to drink this first." There was a note of pain in Geralt’s voice. 

He wanted to tell Geralt sorry for once again disappointing him. Jaskier felt the sticky tracks of tears rolling down his cheeks. Geralt needed him to be strong and he...couldn't. He was too weak to even open his eyes. 

The cup was taken away and the cloth passed over his face again for a few blessed seconds of cold. 

And then a singular drop of water touched his lips. Jaskier instinctively touched the tip of his tongue to the droplet. 

“Hmm.” He felt Geralt’s chest vibrate reassuringly. 

Another two droplets. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. Then another two, and he felt the ghost of a fingertip brush against his lips.

Jaskier was unsure how much time passed this way, focusing only on each bead of water, before exhaustion overtook him. The last droplet slid down his chin and with it, the rolling blackness descended again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise that all updates will come this fast, but if there was ever a time to write about burning, this record-breaking heat wave in Arizona would inspire it. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you to those who commented on the first chapter! I'm glad this mix of book/TV canon is resonating. 
> 
> Geralt's POV returns next chapter to ground us a little better in reality. Chapter count is also updated.


	3. Chapter 3

When it first became apparent that Jaskier would not awaken, Geralt rose from the dirt of the road and stowed his lute and pack away on Roach. The witcher stood in the road for a long moment before he finally hoisted Jaskier over his shoulder, remembering a different time when the djinn’s curse had filled the bard’s mouth with blood and he had carried him the same way, feeling the panicked fluttering of Jaskier’s heart against his back. 

Now he lead them off the main road and followed a faded footpath up the side of the hillock. Up top, he nodded to himself in satisfaction. He was thankful that it was early enough in the season for the autumn leaves to still cling to the trees. Here he should have a good view of the road while they remained easily defensible and hidden within the copse of oak and birch.

Geralt laid him down gently on the grass. Jaskier’s face was flushed and he was soaked to the skin. At least his heart beat reassuringly strong.

Geralt rose to his feet and Roach stamped her foot at him. 

“Sorry, Roach. Normally ladies first, but you’ll have to stay tacked up for a bit.” 

Years of traveling with Jaskier meant the two would fall into routine when setting up camp. Jaskier, singing or humming while he shook out the bedrolls, rummaging through their bags to figure out whatever was for dinner that night; Geralt brushing out Roach, checking her hooves. Usually Jaskier would manage to procure something that Geralt would grouse about being needlessly extravagant, but Jaskier would present it to him with a flourish and grin. "Oh, put that scary face away. It's an almond and honey tart, not a gravehag."

One summer night, Jaskier had unwrapped two perfectly ripe peaches and two wine glasses, and a bottle of Fiorano. Ignoring Geralt’s raised eyebrow, he cut the fruit into small half-moons and poured the wine over it. For dinner they had eaten the wine-soaked peaches and drank the wine imbued with fruit juices and the rest of the bottle. Late in the night Jaskier had sprawled drunkenly over Geralt's bedroll, his face only inches away from Geralt's, smelling faintly of peaches and wine. Geralt sometimes still wondered--

He shook his head. He was getting maudlin. Jaskier needed him to be here in this moment, needed him to once again save his life. Only this was a monster Geralt was ill-equipped to face. 

Upon inspection, Jaskier’s pack proved woefully low on supplies, so Geralt laid out a thick saddle blanket and placed his own bedroll on top. He built up the fire only a few feet away. Heavy branches that would burn hot with minimal smoke through a chilly autumn night. 

He turned his attention back to Jaskier. The bard hadn’t so much as stirred.  
Geralt started undoing the buttons on the sleeves of his doublet, freeing his arms from the intricate ties, and undressed him gently but efficiently. He draped the sodden fabric over some branches to dry. 

Geralt grabbed a clean shirt from his own pack and used it to wipe the sweat from his body. It was soon saturated. As he passed the cloth over his hips, Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt dropped the cloth and leaned over him. 

Jaskier turned his head slightly. His eyes were hazy, unfocused. “Geralt?” 

“Jaskier, you’re safe. Rest now.” 

“Cold,” Jaskier whispered and Geralt pressed a hand to his forehead. His skin burned against his palm. “I’m so cold.” 

“It’s the fever. Rest.” Geralt wrapped a wool blanket around him and slipped a bundle of cloth under his head. Jaskier’s eyes closed.

* * *

When night fell, Jaskier worsened. Geralt could smell sorrow and fear alternately radiating off of him while he moaned and thrashed around on the pallet. He seemed in the grip of strong fever dreams, babbling names and languages that Geralt didn’t recognize. 

Geralt boiled feverfew and willowbark and let the pot of liquid cool. It was a mixture he recalled from his youth at Kaer Morhen, a remedy given to the unmutated children sick with winter chills. He knew so little about treating humans. Jaskier, despite all his foolishness, was almost uncannily healthy during their travels, and they could always stop into town for the odd sore throat or scrape. 

But plague...even humans themselves knew little about treating that. When he was younger and new to the path, that had been the time of the last outbreak. The plague had reached Aard Skellige by boat and the villagers had boarded their sick into a house and burned them alive, thinking them cursed by the gods. It was the druid Moussack who had advised the jarls and stopped the spread from overtaking the islands. Geralt had watched him cure a man of plague in mere minutes. But Moussack was in Cintra and Yennefer was --he shook his head. Either way, neither mage was here. As Vesemir was prone to say: “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier moaned. “Geralt.”

Geralt crossed the camp in two steps and stretched out on the bedroll next to him. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier, shushed him, and he seemed to relax a little at that, finally. The two of them dozed by the fire. Geralt would not allow himself to sleep and instead fixated on the slow rise and fall of the bard’s chest. 

The moon soon rose, and with it, the fever. Jaskier’s eyes darted beneath his eyelids and his breathing quickened. “Geralt,” he pleaded, “Geralt, help me.” 

“I’m here,” Geralt said, rocking him gently as Jaskier continued to beg over and over. “Jaskier, I’m right here. Take my hand.” 

Jaskier was shaking so hard that Geralt could hear his teeth click. If this fever continued to rise...Fuck. This fever could not continue to rise. He set aside a tin cup of the cooled tea and dipped a cloth into the remaining herbal liquid. Jaskier shivered when the cloth first touched his face and tried to pull away. 

“Gold dragon,” Jaskier mumbled deliriously. “Gold dragons.” 

Geralt pulled the blanket away and began to wipe his neck and arms with the tincture. There were tears running down Jaskier’s face now and he tossed his head from side to side but did not awaken. 

“Jaskier, wake up,” Geralt pleaded. “Jaskier. Julian. Julian Pancratz. Jas.” 

Even in the cold air, his skin was burning. His heartbeat was loud and rabbit fast. Geralt ran the cloth over his forehead. Had Jaskier done this for Essi? How many nights had she fought before she succumbed? Was it fever or dehydration or did her heart also beat rabbit fast as her blood thickened until--

“Dammit, Jaskier, stay with me,” he growled. 

“G’rlt,” Jaskier slurred as Geralt helped him into a sitting position. 

“Jaskier, can you drink? You need to drink something,” Geralt said, and held the cup to his mouth. Jaskier hung limply in his arms as the liquid spilled down the sides of his mouth. 

"Jaskier, just a mouthful. Then you can sleep. You need to drink this first. You’re dehydrated; it’s affecting your heartbeat.”

Jaskier’s cheeks were wet with tears again but his eyes remained closed. Geralt dipped his finger into the cup of tea and let a single drop touch Jaskier’s lip, watching as the tip of his tongue touched the droplet. Drop by drop, he fed the tea to Jaskier until unconsciousness claimed him once again. 

Geralt stared into the flames while Jaskier lay sprawled on his lap. He let his hand card through his tangled hair. The night was silent except for the crackling of the fire and Jaskier’s quiet breathing: no footstep shuffle of a healer on the road below, no creaking merchant cart carrying remedies, no shimmer of a portal opening in rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suspect this fic might end up closer to 8 chapters, depending on a few plot choices I need to make in the next chapter.
> 
> Thank you all for reading/commenting/kudos-ing!


	4. Chapter 4

A cursed season, the innkeeper thought, rubbing wood polish into the bar inside the Blue Grouse. First the gods-cursed plague in Vizima, and now the thunder of an approaching storm. Even one night’s rain would wash the road out and halt what little traffic was out there. Usually there was a steady stream of pilgrims between Vizima and the Temple in Ellander and The Blue Grouse did brisk business as they stopped for a night. Tonight the inn was barely a quarter full and the common area oddly empty as the few guests stayed sheltered in their rooms. It was the silence of the past few weeks that was strangest, he thought. An inn wasn’t meant to be quiet and empty like this. 

So he was surprised then, when the door swung open and a man stood in the doorway. 

No, not a man. _Two men_ , and that wasn’t quite right either --a _witcher_ in black armor and a slimmer man dressed in a hooded cloak. The man’s arm was slung around the witcher’s neck and it was apparent from his bowed head and the way his body dangled limply that the man was unconscious. The witcher was holding him in such a way that it wasn’t immediately obvious. But Antorell had been an innkeeper for thirty years now and instinctively knew how to spot trouble. A shiver went through him that had nothing to do with the chill from the open door. 

“Hello good sirs, how may I help you?”

“A room. As private and quiet as you can manage. My horse is already stabled.” The witcher’s voice was low and gravelly, nearly a growl. Antorell briefly wondered if witchers normally spoke the common tongue or if they had their own demonic language. Hearing him speak was like watching a dog walk on two legs. 

“Of course,” he said soothingly. “Forgive me, but I must ask if you’re coming from Vizima. There’s terrible plague in the city so we’ve barred anyone from thataways. And barred anyone sick, too,” he added, nodding at the witcher’s companion. “What’s wrong with him, eh?” 

“Not from Vizima. And my companion is simply drunk,” the witcher said. “He needs to sleep it off.”

Now that he mentioned it, there was a strong herbal alcohol scent that lingered on the both of them. Still, something odd about this business. That hooded companion --maybe an elf? Or a demon? He didn’t want any witchery work on his property. 

“Not any watering holes between Vizima and Ellander, ‘cept this one,” the innkeeper said pointedly, daring to meet the witcher’s gaze. “Was the gentleman drinking in the wilderness? Because we also don’t entertain those who drink in the trees, if you catch my meaning.” 

The witcher sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t have fucking time for this.” 

He lifted his hand and the innkeeper froze, certain that he would reach back for a sword, but instead the witcher turned his hand and traced a sign in the air. 

_Axii_

Antorell blinked.

The door was open, and two men were standing in front of the bar. He hadn’t even heard them enter. 

“Hello, good sirs. How may I help you?” 

“You were just showing us to your most private room,” the witcher said. “We’ll need a bath drawn up, and dinner, and then to be left the fuck alone.” 

“At your service,” the innkeeper replied, smiling cheerily, eyes blank.

* * *

Once the door closed, Geralt tightened his grip around Jaskier’s waist and leaned heavily against the adjacent wall. He lowered the two of them down to the floor and sighed. He was bone-deep exhausted in a way that he couldn’t remember feeling since the Trial of Grasses. Jaskier slumped against him, face still hidden by the witcher’s cloak. 

Three days. Geralt had nursed Jaskier in the makeshift camp for three days and still his fever had receded but not broken. The dark storm clouds breaking across the horizon had been a strange relief: the decision to stay or seek help was made for him. He dressed Jaskier in his own hooded black cloak to disguise his illness and, hating himself, urged Roach until her sides heaved and white foam gathered at the corner of her mouth. Fortunately the only inn on the way to Ellander was still open. 

Geralt allowed himself to doze while the innkeeper himself --eyes still slack, face red with exertion-- hauled the buckets up two at a time to fill the tub. He had probably been a little too aggressive with the Axii, Geralt mused, but he had lacked the energy for any more back-and-forth. Jaskier would have spun the conversation around easily, smoothed the innkeeper's fears, gotten them free rooms and a meal and a purse of coin for the promise of a night’s performance. 

_Jaskier_. Geralt frowned and grabbed his wrist. His heartbeat was a steady, reassuring rhythm. The bard never stirred once during their ride to the inn. Geralt had heard of humans falling into deep sleep, whether from illness or injury and never waking, until they finally died from lack of water and food. 

A thin woman with a pinched face appeared in the doorway bearing a covered tray that smelled like mutton and potatoes. Geralt nodded at the table and she crossed the room, gingerly placed the tray upon it, and all but ran back out the door. Seems it wasn’t just the innkeeper with a fear of witchers. The innkeeper soon finished filling the tub and bowed as he left. 

Geralt waited for the water to cool somewhat before he turned to Jaskier and undid the clasp at his throat. His hands lingered at Jaskier’s throat. Dressed in Geralt's dark clothes, his face thin and pale, dirty hair plastered to his face, the difference between him and the youth Geralt had met two decades prior had never been more pronounced. 

“Jaskier, I’m sorry.” 

_If this didn’t work…_ He undressed him quickly and lowered him into the tepid water. 

The reaction was instantaneous. As soon as he touched the water, Jaskier's body jerked in his arms and he opened his eyes with a whimper. Frightened blue eyes searched Geralt's and widened in recognition before he suddenly twisted out of Geralt’s grip, leaned over the lip of the tub, and began to vomit. 

"F-fuck," Jaskier moaned. "Oh, fuck." 

Geralt held him up while his shoulders shook and he heaved violently. His stomach was empty so he only brought up bile and spit. Several minutes passed before he stilled and leaned back into the bath, eyes closed. 

“Fuck, Geralt, this is freezing,” he said hoarsely. 

“Lukewarm,” Geralt said, thickly. “It’s lukewarm, Jaskier. To lower your fever.”

Jaskier inclined his head in a slight nod. “Ah, yes. That.” 

Geralt knelt there stupidly, gripping his shoulders, overwhelmed. 

“Geralt, what is it?” Jaskier finally asked. “Frankly, you look terrible. I’d venture to say you look nearly as bad as I feel.” 

_I didn’t know if I would ever hear your voice again._ “I’m fine. How do you feel?” He pressed a hand to Jaskier’s forehead. 

“Dizzy. Weak. Exhausted.” Jaskier leaned into the touch. “I feel a bit like my head has a pulse. My chest feels heavy. And I couldn’t stand up right now if I had to.” 

“No need to stand up. I’m going to wash your hair and then we’ll see if you can manage some tea.”

Jaskier closed his eyes again while Geralt worked the soap through his hair. He shivered when his hair was rinsed. 

“Geralt, how long was I--?” he asked softly.

“Three days.”

Jaskier nodded and bit his lip. He remained silent. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said seriously. “I don’t know what you need, which remedies to buy. I can’t tell anyone about your illness or they’ll burn us both. What did you use for Essi? Did you see a healer?”

"Why? It didn't work, obviously.” Jaskier said bitterly, then sighed. “I bought a tincture to treat the lungs but Essi succumbed early to the fever. Could be sugar water for all I know. It’s still in my pack.” 

The silence came between them again. 

“Let’s get you out of this water,” Geralt said and lifted him in one smooth motion. He helped Jaskier towel off and slipped another one of his shirts over his head. Jaskier plucked at the black fabric and leaned back on the pillows. Something about the sight of his shirt slipping off Jaskier’s shoulders twisted something in Geralt’s chest. He chose to not examine the thought too closely. 

“I’m feeling much better,” Jaskier said softly. “I just can’t seem to keep my eyes open.”

“Then don’t.” Geralt sat on the bed and gripped Jaskier’s hand. “Go to sleep.” 

“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier continued. “I know I tend towards the sentimental but it means...this all means quite a lot to me.” 

Geralt swallowed and brushed his hand across Jaskier’s forehead. Warm, but not dangerously so. “Sleep now, Jaskier. I’ll see you in the morning.”

* * *

The innkeeper startled when the witcher appeared behind him. 

“Broth,” the witcher said bluntly. 

“I beg your pardon?

“Broth,” the witcher repeated. “It’s a cold night. I’d like some sent up. If you have it.”

“Of course,” Antorell said, nodding. “Anything else, Master Witcher?”

“Yes.” The witcher shifted on his feet, looking almost nervous. “I have an urgent letter. Can you make sure that this gets sent at first light?”

“I’ll walk it to the courier myself.” 

“Hmm,” the witcher said, and stalked back up the stairs. The innkeeper couldn’t tell if it was a sound of approval or disgust. And who would a witcher even write to? Hopefully he wasn’t sending the courier into a swamp or a haunted tower. Antorell looked down at the letter in his hand: 

_To the Archpriestess Nenneke, Temple of Melitele_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to celebrate my birthday with an update. Thank you all for your comments and kudos so far, I appreciate all of you. <3
> 
> Geralt: I can initiate touch, but will not use my words.


	5. Chapter 5

Consciousness broke upon Jaskier in waves. He felt the weight of a body next to him, the roughness of the sheets and the heaviness of a hand resting on his forehead before slipping under again. The darkness soon gave way to a bright dawn that he could sense even with closed eyes. Daylight. He could feel the heat of it in his head and his chest. Opening his eyes was a herculean effort that left him nearly out of breath while the room seemed to contract and expand around him.

Geralt was on his knees next to the tub, elbow-deep in the water. A plate and a cup sat overturned on the floor. As Jaskier watched, Geralt waved his hand over the water and flames licked at his palm. He lifted a bowl from the water and carefully wiped at it with a cloth before stacking it on top of the plate. 

Jaskier struggled to a sitting position and blinked. "There are...dishes. in the bathwater," he said finally. At the sound of his voice Geralt shook the water off his hands and stepped towards him. 

“How are you feeling?”

“I...this is real, right? I’m alive, and you’re washing dishes in a bathtub, and we’re...at an inn?” Jaskier asked, looking around. He hated how hoarse his voice sounded. 

“Yes,” Geralt said as he crouched next to the bed. There was a hint of amusement in his eyes at Jaskier’s groan of exasperation at his answer. 

“I need a little more than the old ‘three words or less’, old friend,” Jaskier huffed. “I remember bits here and there but no cohesive narrative.” 

“Cohesive narrative? Already writing your next ballad, bard?" 

Something must have shown on Jaskier’s face because Geralt grabbed his hand and squeezed it lightly. 

“We’re at an inn. Told them you were under a curse and no human should touch you. I’m hauling water and doing dishes and burning the used bedding to make sure no one catches ill.” Jaskier didn’t doubt it: the witcher looked absolutely exhausted. 

“Also, I hinted that you were nobility,” Geralt added. “Very strongly hinted: I Axii’d the innkeeper the first night. So at least the food has been decent.” 

“Geralt, you scoundrel,” Jaskier laughed before a coughing fit overtook him. Geralt looked at him with obvious concern as he gripped his hand. It took him a minute to regain his breath and wave him off. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” he said hoarsely and leaned back on the pillows. Geralt squeezed his hand and stood up. He returned with a cup of water which Jaskier drank greedily. 

“Move over,” Geralt said. Jaskier shifted on the mattress and he laid next to him. Sleep threatened to overtake him again. 

“How are you feeling?” Geralt asked. “You didn’t answer, earlier.” 

“Tired,” Jaskier said finally. “Weak. Feels like a weight on my head and chest. And just a teensy little bit like my lungs are being tickled with a feather and squeezed in a vice simultaneously.” 

Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the witcher’s gaze on him. 

“Scared,” he added quietly. “I feel so fucking scared, Geralt.” 

There were arms around him then, as Geralt pulled him close. Jaskier clung to the comfort offered. He felt a hand carding through his hair and fell asleep matching his breathing to the witcher’s slow heartbeat.

* * *

“Maybe we should try the tincture,” Geralt said when Jaskier coughed so hard the bowl of soup dropped from his hands. 

Jaskier nodded. Geralt fished the vial from his pack and poured a small dose into the cup. He sniffed at it, grimaced. 

“Does it smell like anything you recognize?” Jaskier asked. “It could be literal or figurative bullshit, for all I know.” 

“Lots of herbs. Hard to tell what’s all in it,” Geralt said, but he did not meet Jaskier’s eyes when he pressed the cup into his hands. “Worth a try at least.”

* * *

Jaskier awoke to the witcher pacing back and forth. Geralt was obviously agitated: Jaskier could see his hands clench and unclench as he stormed across the room, his mouth drawn in a hard line. 

“Geralt, what’s wrong? Talk to me.” 

There was pain in the witcher’s eyes when he turned to Jaskier. "The innkeeper is ill," he said at last.

"Ah." Jaskier bit his lip and looked away. "And what you are leaving unsaid is that he is ill as a direct result of my arrival to his inn." 

"Or some other guest."

"You don't believe that, and I don't either," Jaskier said flatly and rolled over to face the wall. He took a breath to steady himself as his shoulders shook.

“I made the choice,” Geralt said quietly. Even across the room his voice still carried. “Don’t put that burden on yourself, Jaskier.”

At the bard's lengthy silence, Geralt sighed. "I'll go see to Roach."

“I’m glad for it,” Jaskier said sharply, turning back towards him and scrubbing at his eyes. “Melitele help me. I’m still glad for it. For the choice you made. And that’s the hard thing, you understand?” 

The witcher nodded, eyes were dark. His hand on the doorknob visibly clenched. “Someone once taught me that if you don’t choose between evils, the choice is made for you." 

"I’d make the same choice again, Jaskier," he added quietly and left, the door clicking shut behind him. The bard stared at the ceiling. Sleep was long in coming.

* * *

"Jaskier, wake up." 

Jaskier opened his eyes as a coughing fit immediately overtook him. His cough had worsened over the past two days. Geralt faithfully fed him the tincture, brewed teas and fetched soup, filled the bath twice a day with steaming water yet nothing truly soothed the ache in his chest. 

Jaskier managed two shaky breaths and stared. Geralt was leaning heavily against the closed door, his hand pressed to his side. When he lifted his hand his palm was red with blood. Jaskier gasped

"We need to leave," the witcher said.

"Geralt! Gods, Geralt, you're bleeding," Jaskier stammered. “What happened--”

"Pitchfork,” Geralt answered bluntly as he quickly tied a strip of cloth around his side. “Jaskier, we have to leave **now**." 

"Pitchfork?" Jaskier squealed. "Geralt!" 

"The innkeeper is dead," Geralt said, stuffing their belongings into their packs. "His wife heard you coughing and put two and two together. They’ll kill me and burn the inn down with you in it if we don’t hurry." 

"The innkeeper is dead?" Jaskier repeated as he fumbled with his clothing. He shrugged into his doublet and let it hang open as he pulled his boots on over bare feet. He could hear shouts downstairs steadily growing in volume. 

“I’ll get Roach,” Geralt said, shouldering both their packs. He strode over the window and threw it open. “Can you manage your lute?” 

Jaskier nodded. He stood shakily and walked over to join him at the window. Geralt helped slip the strap of the instrument case over his head.

“If I’m not back in five minutes, jump anyway and hide off the road.” Geralt gave the room one last look over and grabbed a wool blanket. He draped it over Jaskier’s shoulders. “Here. Try to stay warm.” 

The witcher slipped through the window like a cat and disappeared. Jaskier leaned against the sill. He focused on keeping his breathing slow and steady, from the diaphragm, recalling his vocal exercises at Oxenfurt. He wheezed a little on each exhale but pressed a handkerchief to his face to muffle the sound. 

The light of the torches glowed underneath the door, casting shadows across the room and bathing Jaskier’s face with a sickly yellow light. They raged at the door with their fists and voices. 

“Murderers!”

“We didna deserve this, Witcher!” 

Were there a dozen men? More? _Gods, Geralt, hurry._

“Goddess curse both of ye!”

With a sharp thud the gleam of an axe bit through the door. Jaskier gripped the lute case tightly as he watched the gash in the wood widen with each resounding blow. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouted just as the door collapsed with a loud crack. 

He didn’t look back as he flung himself through the window and into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the birthday wishes, comments, and kudos. 
> 
> Next chapter: Some Geralt whump. Some angst as they grapple with their choices. Smidge more hurt, but there's that bright, beautiful dawn of comfort ahead.


	6. Chapter 6

The road was eerily empty. Not that Iola spent that much of her life out on the roads, especially as a daughter of the Temple, but she had never in memory recalled so few travellers. 

_Business at the Blue Grouse must be suffering,_ she thought. Normally the wealthier patrons stayed at the inn and the inn’s owner paid a pretty tithe to the Temple. Her next thought was uglier: _It will suffer more when the war reaches us._

At least she was making good time. The empty road made it easy for her horse to navigate the cart around the occasional pothole or mud patch. With any luck, she would reach the witcher and the bard by nightfall. 

“I need discretion,” the Archpriestess had told her when the witcher’s letter first arrived. “I trust you above all others. Travel back as quickly as the bard’s condition allows.”

Iola bowed her head. 

“We are not the only ones looking for Geralt,” Nenneke added. Iolas’ eyes narrowed, but the Archpriestess did not elaborate. 

_Nilfgaard._ The word remained unspoken but understood between them. 

Iola was only hours away from the Temple when she first spotted the silhouettes of a pair of travelers on the road: one riding a horse, the other walking alongside. As she approached, the tableau became more odd. The horse was moving unnaturally slow, its rider slumped in the saddle, while the man on foot seemed to be leaning heavily against the horse for support. She watched as he stumbled and barely caught himself before looking up and waving frantically. 

“Help! Please, Priestess!” the man shouted hoarsely. “My companion is injured.” 

It was the bard and the witcher, she realized with a start, surveying the two of them. It had been years ago when they last visited the Temple. The bard --Jaskier-- was thin, his doublet torn and dusty, face pinched with exhaustion as he steadied himself. Geralt did not stir from where he sat slumped in the saddle. Thin ropes looped around his wrists, securing him to the pommel. 

Iola climbed down from the wagon seat and moved toward them.

“Stop,” the bard said, panicked, hands fluttering before a coughing fit overtook him. He leaned against the horse’s side and coughed wetly into a dirty handkerchief. “Don’t come closer. I caught the sickness in Vizima.” 

“But he’s a witcher,” Jaskier added, as if it weren’t obvious from the white hair and the swords strapped across his back. “He’s not susceptible to these illnesses. Let me step away.”

She shook her head and the bard’s face crumpled. She shook her head again, raised her hand and slowly pointed at him and then to the cart. Jaskier looked at her blankly, not understanding. 

She pointed to the cart again and sighed. The bard hailed from Oxenfurt. It was worth a try. 

_”I am Iola,”_ she signed. _“The wiedźmin sent word to the Archpriestess that you were in need.”_

“Oh, blessed fucking Mother,” the bard said. "Sorry. Iola, he's bleeding, they got him with a pitchfork--" he broke off, coughing. The witcher's side was bound with wide strips torn from a wool blanket. Blood was soaking through the makeshift bandage. When Iola tried to move closer, the horse stamped her feet and bared her teeth.

"Roach will follow," Jaskier wheezed, watching her size up the witcher. Iola would be unable to help him from the horse onto the cart without assistance and the bard looked ready to drop. He struggled for breath but kept talking. "He's not --quite himself. It might be hard to --to coax him away from her. She’s protective.”

Well, they had made it this far. A few more hours in the saddle might be the least of his worries. The bard, however, needed to move before he collapsed. 

_"Get in the cart,"_ she signed and the bard began to walk haltingly toward her. Despite Jaskier’s protests, she grabbed him by the elbow and helped haul him into the back of the cart. His eyes fluttered shut as he lay sprawled in the straw. 

She turned back to the horse. The animal’s gaze was eerily intelligent. Roach, the bard had called her. 

_Odd name for a horse,_ she thought, and shaking her head, clambered back up into her wooden seat. 

She prayed she could deliver them both alive to the Archpriestess.

* * *

"Good. You're awake."

Geralt opened his eyes and struggled to sit up. His ribs were heavily bandaged, making it difficult to bend. Nenneke was seated at his bedside, perched on a small wooden chair. The Archpriestess smiled at him. 

“Nenneke...how did I? --where’s Jaskier?” 

"You are in my personal chambers,” the Archpriestess answered, waving her hand at the sparsely furnished room. “And your bard is alive. As for how? Well, the both of you, as usual, continue to defy the odds." 

“I need to see him.” Geralt swung his legs over the edge of the bed and hissed.

"Careful,” Nenneke said. “You've got more potions in you than I’d like. And you’ll need more once your toxicity levels have lessened." Her face softened at Geralt’s expression. “Come, lean on me and I will take you to him.” 

She whisked them down the hall and into a large room blanketed with steam and covered in dark green tiles. There was a deep pool of heated water in the center. Next to it, Jaskier lay on a pallet, asleep, naked except for a poultice on his chest. A young priestess poured hot water from a kettle into a deep bowl of herbs near his head.

Geralt crossed the room and knelt at his side, across from the priestess. Jaskier wheezed faintly on every exhale, but his breathing was otherwise even and he seemed to be sleeping deeply. The young woman held out the bowl of herbs, letting the steam roll over Jaskier’s face. Geralt smelled liquorice, and comfrey, and...fisstech?

“Fisstech?” he growled and turned toward the priestess. 

“Iola, please leave us," Nenneke said curtly. The young priestess bowed and exited the room. 

“Yes, Geralt, fisstech,” Nenneke said. “In small doses, it reduces inflammation.” 

“He has an addictive personality."

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” she responded drily. “Geralt, his body is still fighting hard. I’ve treated illnesses like this before, many times over. The contagion has passed but the secondary infection has settled in his lungs.”

“Will he?” Geralt asked quietly, not finishing the sentence. His hand hovered hesitantly over Jaskier’s face. Jaskier's breath was warm against his palm.

“You’ve never doubted my abilities before,” Nenneke said with an odd expression. She squeezed his shoulder. “He’s through the worst of it, Geralt. You did well. Maybe you missed your calling?” 

“I’d look terrible in robes and a headdress.” 

Nenneke laughed, and Geralt allowed himself a small smile. 

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “The bard is...important to me.” 

“I know.”

Together they quietly watched his chest rise and fall. Jaskier’s skin was slightly flushed from the heat, his hair plastered to his face. His hands twitched as he dreamed. 

“This steam, however, is not good for you,” Nenneke said finally. “You'll sweat out the potions before they can do their work. You need rest, too.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt said. He felt his exhaustion growing but was loath to leave Jaskier to wake up alone. 

“I will stay with him myself, Geralt,” Nenneke said softly. “If he wakes before then, I will fetch you.”

Geralt rose to his feet and managed a clumsy bow.

“And then,” the Archpriestess added, “you and I have much to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I post twice in one week just to surprise myself.


	7. Chapter 7

Geralt wandered the Temple gardens. It was always easier for him to think while on his feet, outdoors and alone. He had slept well and the pain in his ribs was now only a dull ache. The witcher mutations were adapted to this sort of pain. It was just background noise. 

In the anguish and the chaos of the past week and a half, it had been easy to direct all his energies to saving Jaskier’s life. He didn’t have the luxury of thinking beyond the moment. No time to think about _destiny_ \--he grimaced -- and all its trappings. But as he laid in his narrow cot these past few nights staring at the ceiling, his mind worried over the child surprise like a tongue bothering a sore tooth, impossible to disregard. 

He made peace with the child surprise once he solved the riddle of why destiny would bind her to a witcher. Nilfgaard’s death march across the continent had made his fate clear: he would save her and die in the attempt.

The trees in the garden were nearly bare. The chill in the air spoke more to winter than autumn. He thought briefly of Kaer Morhen with a pang. He would have liked to see them all, one last time, his fellow Wolves. Perhaps if Jaskier had been able, he would have brought him there instead. 

_Jaskier._ He was glad their paths had crossed. Not about the circumstances, of course. But Geralt was deeply, selfishly glad that Jaskier’s last memories of him wouldn’t be the gods-forsaken mountain. He would take Jaskier to Oxenfurt, if the bard recovered quickly enough, and leave for Cintra at the spring thaw.

“The way you brood, perhaps the Temple life really should have been your calling.” 

“It’s also a time-honored witcher tradition,” Geralt said, turning towards Nenneke. “Being mutated, cast out from society...gives you lots of time to brood.” 

The priestess studied him a moment before speaking. “Let me alleviate a little of your worry: your friend is finally awake. I would, however, like to speak with you first.” He took her arm as she led him to a stone bench nearby. “Come, sit with me.” 

“How is he?” Geralt asked as they sat down. 

“Talked in his sleep half the night. I don’t know why I was surprised --of course he still talks when unconscious. Geralt --he will not be able to travel this winter. His lungs need to fully heal. I told him” --an expression of pain crossed her face-- “that he was welcome to stay here.”

Geralt turned, surprised. “I thought men weren’t welcome in the Temple of Melitele.”

“Well, you recovered here years ago,” Nenneke pointed out. “And he traveled all this way to see you when he heard you were ill. Hardly left your side, not even to flirt with the girls. Your Yennefer did not, I might add.”

“Yenn was mad at me. We were in a disagreement. And besides,” Geralt added, changing the subject, ”you don’t even like Jaskier.”

“He is ill. And he needs you.”

“He needs medical care, and rest.” Geralt’s voice lowered. “Nenneke, I barely kept him alive before we arrived here.”

"Not all of healing is physical, Geralt.” She fixed him with a steely look. “He will do better for having you around. Stay the winter here with him."

“In the spring,” Geralt said, so softly he could hardly hear himself. “I am leaving for Cintra. Nilfgaard is approaching. I have been running from my Child Surprise for her whole life, but I am finally ready to offer mine.”

“Geralt.” Nenneke took his hand. “Geralt,” she said again, quietly. “You are like a son to me. Now don’t pull that face --I won’t say it again, but I wanted you to hear it. You deserve a little happiness, where you can find it. 

“Before the two of you arrived, I dreamt of Cintra burning. And the sacrifice I saw _was not yours to make._ Stay the winter, Geralt, and you will have the resources of the Temple to aid you in this. And I suspect your bard’s health is not just an afterthought for you.” 

Several minutes of silence passed before Geralt finally sighed. “I will stay,” he said, “but Cintra remains a secret between us. Don’t tell Jaskier. It’s not his burden.”

* * *

“Glad you’re awake.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed hoarsely. He was submerged up to his chest in the heated pool, seated on a shallow shelf. “They wouldn’t tell me where you were. I thought, maybe --wrongly, obviously-- that you had moved on.” 

There had been plenty of occasions in their friendship where Geralt had done that exact thing. Neither of them brought that up now. 

“Mother Nenneke says I need to spend the winter here. There’s a chance of scarring on the lungs, otherwise, which with the whole bard thing is a definite yikes. I’m supposed to stay warm, and --and pampered, and _dull_ .” Jaskier was never good at being idle. Even now his hand tapped out a nervous rhythm on the tiles. 

“It’s a nice temple,” Geralt said, smiling at the face Jaskier pulled. “Women, baths, gardens...Imagine if we’d been near the Temple of the Holy Flame instead?”

“I’d be dead,” Jaskier said, a little flatly. “ _We’d_ be dead. Anyway, I’ve been promised that if I’m a good boy and cease to cough up any blood, I can go to the main baths. Until then, I’m stuck in this pool or bed. Like a fucking mermaid. Merman.”

Geralt noticed with relief that his breathing was even, slow. The steam rising from the water smelled like menthol and celadine - a calm, healing scent. 

“Move over and let me join you.” Jaskier’s eyes widened in surprise at the request, but nodded. Geralt stripped quickly and lowered himself into the pool, wincing when the hot water touched his injury. There was just enough room in the alcove for the two of them to sit together comfortably, Jaskier’s side pressed up against his uninjured one. Geralt’s eyes closed as he leaned back against the tiles. 

Fingertips touched his side gently just below the scar. “Does it still hurt?” 

“Give it another day.” 

"Ah, so it _is_ still hurting you." 

“Some of us did not spend the past three days sleeping.” 

“Well, some of us are not made of strong witcher stuff,” Jaskier huffed. He rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder. “Some of us are just...amazingly talented bards. Who apparently need a whole winter to recover.”

Geralt chuckled and moved his arm so Jaskier could lean more easily against him. His breath was warm against his neck. Maybe he could sleep here for a bit, now that Jaskier was clearly alive and well and the burden of that worry no longer pressed on him like a weight

“Geralt, I’m sorry if I messed up your winter plans,” Jaskier said suddenly. “I’ve been nothing but a burden since Vizima. Thank you for saving my life, once again.”

“You saved my life getting here. Nothing for you to be sorry over,” Geralt said gruffly. And because it couldn’t hurt, not when he was leaving for his death in the spring, not when time was so short now, he added, “I was afraid I would lose you.” 

Jaskier was quiet, but Geralt could hear his heart picking up pace.

“I thought many times over these past few weeks that I would die,” Jaskier continued finally. “And I thought, what would I tell you? Would I get to tell you? I’ve been such a coward, Geralt.”

"Jaskier." Geralt's throat felt tight. "You don't need to say anything."

“I've been such a coward,” Jaskier repeated. There was a sort of nervy determination in his blue eyes. “There was always some reason I’d talk myself out of it: our sacred friendship, or Yennefer, or that horrible dragon hunt. I _am_ a coward. That is to say, Geralt --”

Geralt kissed him. 

Jaskier stiffened in surprise before the tension in his body finally relaxed and he returned the kiss in earnest. Geralt pulled him closer and Jaskier sighed into it for a beautiful, perfect moment before he broke away, coughing. 

“Ugh, sorry,” he said once he caught his breath. “I promise that I’m _extremely_ motivated to focus on my recovery. I’ll be the best patient Nenneke’s seen.” 

He was smiling.

Geralt leaned over and pressed his lips to his forehead. Jaskier shifted so he was half-sprawled over Geralt’s lap, his face tucked into the witcher’s neck, his breath once again soft and even. 

“I’ll stay the winter, Jaskier. Take your time."

“Good,” Jaskier mumbled into his shoulder. “I’m glad.”

Geralt leaned them both back against the tiles. He’d take that nap after all. There was time for it. Time for him and Jaskier to find a little happiness, a coda to the strange dance they’d been performing for twenty years. Somewhere out in the darkness, destiny waited: a castle, an army, a child surprise. But before that, one last, perfect winter stretched out before him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....and that's a wrap (of sorts). Oh Geralt, you big idiot. 
> 
> I have thoughts about adding onto this in a series (!)but I'm not 100% happy with the pacing in this fic, so there's a chance it could end up being a rewrite and epilogue first. 
> 
> Thank you for the comments and love! Wishing everyone a happier 2021!


End file.
